


Taken Names

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, F/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: This is a sequel to Taking Names. It takes place when Noah is fifteen - although we're just going to assume that in ten years, phones and everything are pretty much the same ;)





	Taken Names

“Hey, you boys here to see Santa Claus?”

Gable blinked at the girl behind the counter. “I’m Jewish,” he said, a small frown wrinkling his brow.

“And fifteen,” Noah added with a laugh.

“Yeah,” Gable said, glancing at him, feeling his cheeks heating in embarrassment. He’d been so caught off guard by the question that he’d made himself sound like an imbecile.

The cashier was smiling, and Gable realized two things, belatedly: first, she’d been joking; second, she was too nice to point that out now that she could see the flush staining his cheeks. He tried to think of something clever, maybe self-deprecating, to make the situation less awkward, but his mind was blank.

“Gabe’s more into The Tooth Fairy—non-denominational, you know—but me, I like them all. Easter Bunny is my favorite, to be honest, because he brings more chocolate. Santa Claus always insists on putting an orange in my stocking and you know, as much as I like oranges, that’s just space that could hold more chocolate,” Noah said. He was leaning against the counter, his body turned toward Gable as he talked to the cashier. “I’ll tell you a secret, too—I’ve always been a fan of Peeps. I know,” he added quickly, holding up a hand, “you think less of me already, but I don’t care. The heart wants what it wants, and my heart wants an endless supply of animal-shaped marshmallows.”

She was laughing, now, and Noah was grinning. He was the epitome of _cool_ , Gable thought, letting out a breath of relief. Now that Noah had drawn the young woman’s attention onto himself, Gable found that his brain had begun working, again.

“They’re pretty awful,” the girl said. “But they’re better—surprisingly—when they’re stale.”

“Ah, yes, stale Peeps are the best,” Noah agreed, nodding.

“Of course, he puts ketchup on his macaroni and cheese,” Gable said. When the cashier looked at him, he shrugged and added, “So, you know…”

She laughed again, looking at Noah. “Is that true?”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue and flipped his hands in a _what can I say?_ gesture. “Guilty as charged,” he answered. “My dad and Gabe are on the same page on this one, believe me. They watch me in mutual disgust, shaking their heads in commiseration.”

“Are you two brothers?” she asked, casting a glance between them.

Noah clapped Gable on the shoulder. “Only in our hearts,” he said, grinning.

“Yeah, his Peep-filled heart,” Gable quipped, and Noah and the cashier both laughed. “Actually, he mostly brings me around to pacify his dad.”

Still chuckling, Noah said, “He’s right. My dad needs _someone_ around with refined tastes. Mark my words, someday I’ll find them on the, I don’t know, _veranda_ , sipping scotch and smoking Cuban cigars and discussing all the ways the fast food industry has destroyed American cuisine.”

“Well, it has,” Gable said, and Noah grinned at him.

“Is your dad who this tie is for?” the cashier asked doubtfully, holding it up. It was bright blue and covered in dancing snowmen.

“Yeah, but look,” Noah said, gesturing toward the small bag in Gable’s hand. “He got him cologne—The kid’s Jewish and he still got my father a better Christmas present than I did. Lucky for me I have these dimples,” he added, pointing at his cheek as he smiled.

“He got his parents more stuff than that, the tie is sort of a joke,” Gable said. “And Barba will definitely wear that. In court. Probably until July.”

“In court? Is he a lawyer or judge or something? Or criminal?”

“Lawyer,” Noah said, and Gable could see the pride in his friend’s face. “Best in the city, if not country. Which is why we should get going, because I don’t feel like being cross-examined about missing dinner.”

She put the tie into a bag and handed him his change and receipt, and said, “Well, it was nice meeting you guys. Not that we met,” she added.

 _That was subtle_ , Gable thought.

“I’m Erica,” she said.

Noah held out a hand. She seemed surprised, but shook it with a bemused smile. “Noah. Gable,” he added, bobbing his head toward his friend.

“Four more shopping days left, maybe I’ll see you again,” she suggested.

“You never know,” Noah answered with a smile.

Once they’d made their way out of the store, Gable said, “Why didn’t you get her number? She definitely wanted you to ask.”

“She’s over eighteen or she wouldn’t be working the counter,” Noah answered. “Besides, I’m not interested.”

“No?” Gable asked, doubtfully.

Noah smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “No,” he said. “Come on, we need to hustle to the subway or my mother will have an APB out for us. My phone’s dead.”

 

*       *       *

 

“It just goes straight to voicemail. I don’t like this, Raf. They wouldn’t be this late, not without calling.”

“If his phone died…” Barba started, but he trailed off, unsure. Noah wouldn’t needlessly worry his mother.

“Do you have Gable’s number?”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” Barba said.

“What do you—I’ve seen him—”

“It broke, his parents told him he had to wait two weeks to get a new one so he’d be more responsible.”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, pacing. “Gable’s the most responsible kid I know. Except Noah. Where the hell are they?”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Barba said, glancing at his watch. “It’s not that late.” Looking at Benson's face, however, he knew that she was right. Something was wrong. It was two hours past when the boys were supposed to be back for dinner. There was no way that they would be more than an hour late without calling, unless there was some reason they _couldn’t_ call.

 

*       *       *

 

“Goddammit, Jerry, why are there two?”

“What was I s'posed to do, shoot one in the subway? They haven’t been apart all day.”

“You took them off the _subway?_ Why didn’t they just yell for help?”

“I showed them my gun, told ‘em I’d shoot anyone who tried to help.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jerry, they should’ve drowned you when you were born. Seriously, take care of this. If Clint shows up—”

“What do you want me to do with him?”

“Hm, Jerry, I wonder. Since he’s seen us, and where we have his little friend, I guess maybe we’ll just send him home? Idiot. He’s nothing to us, we only need Barba’s kid. Get rid of the other one.”

Gable was pressed close against Noah’s arm, and Noah could feel his friend trembling. He felt shaky, himself, but he knew they had to stay as calm as possible.

Jerry raised his gun.

“No, no—” Noah started, lifting a hand as Gable made a small sound of fear beside him.

Jerry had already hesitated, though. He had the gun pointed in the general direction of the two teenagers, but he glanced at the other man and said, “Uh, Ronnie? Which is…which?”

Ronnie had begun to turn away, and he stopped, looking back. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked. “You followed him from _his house_ , didn’t you?”

“They came out of the house together!” Jerry said. “Clint never sent a picture, he said to get Barba’s kid, so I waited at the house, followed the kid all around until I could get to him, brought him here! What the hell am I supposed to do, be a mind-reader?”

Ronnie looked at the boys. “Which one of you is Rafael Barba’s kid?” he asked.

“He is,” Noah answered, trying—and mostly failing—to keep his voice steady. His stomach was churning; he’d never been this scared in his life. “He’s Noah. I’m Gable—”

“No!” Gable said, grabbing Noah’s arm. “No, he’s lying, I’m Gable!” He was absolutely terrified. Tears were streaming down his face. But he had enough presence of mind to realize that Noah was trying to protect him. Noah was the one they wanted, and Gable was expendable.

“Now what?” Jerry asked.

“They’re _kids_!” Ronnie said. He pulled his own gun and stepped forward, pointing it at Noah’s head. Noah swallowed, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Just to make the situation clear, boys. Whichever one of you is Barba, you’re safe. Golden, yeah? And I promise to make it quick for your friend, painless. So I’m only going to ask you once.” He held Noah’s gaze. “What’s your fucking name?”

Noah’s mind was a white glare of panic, now. He couldn’t catch his breath, and his heart was trying to break out of his ribcage. His whole body had gone cold. _Whichever one of you is Barba, you’re safe. What’s your fucking name?_ He could still feel Gable trembling beside him, could hear the other boy’s breathing—he was close to hyperventilating.

_What’s your fucking name?_

_I’m the son of Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba_ , he thought, and that cleared some of the haze from his mind. “Gable Dreyfuss,” he said.

“No, he’s not,” Gable said. “I am.”

With the gun pointed at Noah’s head, Ronnie said, in a low voice, holding Noah’s stare, “Are you willing to die for your friend?”

Noah swallowed. “Yes,” he said, barely more than a hiss of breath.

Ronnie turned the gun toward Gable, who made a mewling sound beside Noah. “Are you willing to die for your friend?”

Gable nodded, unable to speak.

“Give me your ID. Wallet. Now.”

“We don’t have IDs,” Noah managed. He could hear the tremble in his own voice. “We have cash and subway tokens.”

“Give me your cell phone,” Ronnie told Gable.

“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” Noah said, pulling out his own. “And mine’s dead.” He held it out.

Ronnie shifted the gun in his direction and said, quietly, “I really hope you’re the one I get to shoot.” Noah’s groin tightened in fear, and bile stung the back of his throat. He managed to hold the man’s gaze, although he was sure that Ronnie could see the fear shimmering in his eyes.

Ronnie lowered his gun, snatched the phone from Noah, and glared at Jerry. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he muttered. “Put ‘em both in the room until we can figure out who’s who, we can’t risk shooting the wrong kid.”

“Maybe I can find a charger for the phone. If it’s got his contact—”

“Barba’s wife is a police captain. You want to give her a moment of knowing that phone was here? If it’s actually dead, you’re lucky. You should’ve taken it before you ever got them in the van. Check to make sure it _is_ dead and then smash it.”

“Does Clint have a picture? Maybe he can text—”

“Sure, Jerry, you go ahead. You text him and tell him you grabbed an extra kid and you don’t know which is which. Go ahead and dig your own grave while you’re at it. Put them in the fucking room.”

 

*       *       *

 

“What do we do?” Gable asked, hugging himself as he watched Noah pacing the length of the bedroom.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Noah answered, despite the knot of fear in his stomach. He stopped and looked at Gable. “Listen. Don’t call me by my name. We need to make sure they don’t know who’s who for as long as possible. If we’re here long enough for our pictures to be on the news—” He stopped, swallowing the lump of fear with effort, and shook his head. “My mother will find us,” he said. He believed it—he had no doubt that she would find him. He only hoped it would be in time.

This wasn’t a random kidnapping, obviously. It had something to do with Noah’s father, which meant that at some point, the person in charge—Clint—would be in contact with Barba. Noah doubted it was anything ransom-related. His parents made a good living but were far from being millionaires. Whatever grudge Clint had against Barba, he clearly wanted to hurt the lawyer; nothing would hurt him more than going after his family.

Noah felt tears stinging his eyes, and he clenched his jaw, forcing them back. He would not allow himself to be used as a weapon against his father. He had to keep himself together, and keep Gable calm, so they could figure out how to get themselves out of this mess.

“Listen to me,” Noah said, turning to face Gable. “If you get a chance—if there’s any chance—you go. If you see a second to make a break for it, you run. Don’t,” he said, holding up a hand when Gable started to object. “You heard him. They need me, not you. I’m serious. Promise me, if you can run, you run. Promise.”

“I can’t leave you,” Gable murmured, his lips barely moving.

Noah sighed, running a hand through his hair. He walked over and sank onto the bed beside Gable, putting an arm over his shoulders. “You have to trust me, Gabe,” he said, quietly.

“I do,” Gable answered.

“We might not get a chance, but if we do, you have to get out. If they’re going to use me to try to get to my dad, they’re gonna…well, be in for a surprise. But I need to know you’re safe.”

Gable and Noah looked at each other. They’d known each other a long time, and often knew what the other was thinking. They were both fifteen; Noah had no authority over Gable, and neither would he want any. Noah could be argued to have more life experience, considering his rough start in life and a few incidences—being kidnapped by his grandmother, for one—in his younger years, but he was really no more _worldly_ than Gable.

The boys were pretty evenly matched academically, in part because they’d been doing their homework together for years and their individual strengths and weaknesses complemented the other’s. As for sports, Gable had given up on basketball early—even now, at fifteen, he was three inches shorter than Noah and twenty pounds heavier, and too uncoordinated for dribbling no matter how much he and Noah had practiced—but they were on the baseball team together. And they were _good._ When Noah was pitching, and Gable was catching, they were damn near unbeatable.

They were evenly matched in temperament, too. Both were generally calm and level-headed. Gable was more prone to stress, but there had been plenty of times when he’d been the one calming Noah. It was an unspoken rule: one of them had to be calm. Noah supposed he could draw similarities to his parents’ relationship, there. He’d grown up watching them, after all, and they were never both upset at the same time. If one was angry, the other didn’t argue or yell, they just waited it out. If one was sad, the other comforted them. If one was worried, the other was reassuring.

Gable’s parents seemed to have a good marriage, from what Noah had seen. They loved their son—Mrs. Dreyfuss no less for being his stepmother, as she'd been Gable's mother for nearly as long as Barba had been Noah's father—and they were strict but supportive. Noah liked them, and he respected them. He couldn’t say that their marriage was better or worse than the relationship his own parents had, and it wouldn’t be fair to compare.

What he did know, however, was that his parents had seen things—done things—in the course of their lives and jobs that most people never had to deal with. Their experiences made them tougher than other people, but they were not immune to the horrors of the world. If anything, Noah supposed they were more susceptible to worry because they understood the dangers better than anyone. In his younger years, Noah’s mother had struggled with her urge to be overprotective.

Barba had helped with that. From the time he’d moved in with them—even before, really—he’d helped, because they’d been able to share the worry. They’d been able to take turns, in a way. One of them was always calm.

When Noah fell off the jungle gym and hit his head—the first time Barba had been there to see him hurt—it had been Benson who kept a level head. She’d had to, to soothe both Barba and Noah.

When Noah choked on a chunk of hotdog, Benson—normally good in a crisis—had momentarily frozen, and it had been Barba who grabbed the boy and performed a quick Heimlich maneuver.

When Noah was sick with a fever for three days, they took turns worrying, tending to him in shifts. At some point, as he’d gotten older, Noah had realized that if he was alone with one of them, and he was hurt or sick or upset, whichever parent was there was _always_ calm. For him. And they would stay cool and collected, no matter how long it took, until his other parent showed up to relieve them.

Noah had found himself adopting this method, himself. When he was ten years old, he came home to find his father bleeding in the bathroom, having cut himself on a broken glass in the kitchen. Barba was shaken by the sight of so much blood—pale and unsteady, he was trying in vain to bandage his hand while he bled all over the bathroom sink.

When he saw Noah, he tried to gather his composure, but Noah had taken one look at his father’s face and known he needed help. Noah had gone into what his mother would refer to as “crisis mode,” and he’d remained perfectly calm—there hadn’t seemed to be any choice, really, his dad needed him—while he washed and bandaged Barba’s cut. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant stitches—this according to Benson, who arrived thirty minutes later and checked it over—but it was certainly enough to make it look as though a small animal had been slaughtered in the bathroom.

Noah had cleaned the blood out of the sink without giving it much thought. That night, when he’d been lying in bed, with his parents in his room to kiss him goodnight, he’d started to think about it. Then, it had been Barba’s turn to comfort him, to assure him that he was alright, that it was just a cut.

This, Noah had learned early on, was what love was. Not just being there for the other person, but knowing what they needed and being _that_.

“I need you to trust me on this,” Noah said. He had no authority over Gable, that was true—but right now, Gable needed to be able to pretend like he did. Gable needed to believe that Noah had a handle on the situation.

“I do,” Gable repeated.

Noah nodded. “Promise me.”

“Okay. I’ll do whatever you think,” Gable answered.

Noah let out a breath. “Alright.” He looked around the room. There were no windows. There was a bathroom with nothing but a toilet and sink. There was no furniture in the bedroom except for the single-sized bed. It had a metal frame, but it was welded, and Noah didn’t know if he’d be able to break it apart. There was nothing else that could be used as a weapon. They were in a basement, so if they managed to escape the room, they would still have to get upstairs to make it outside.

“Maybe we _should’ve_ yelled for help,” Gable suggested. “On the subway.”

“He had a gun,” Noah answered. “We couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt. I’m sorry, this is my fault, I’ll get you out of this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Gable muttered. “Your parents are…the good guys. All the bad guys in the city probably want to hurt them.”

Noah had rarely given that much thought, at least extending to himself. His parents had always made him feel safe. He’d worried about _them_ —especially his mother, whose life was potentially in danger every time she went to work. He knew his father had received countless threats, each one investigated. But Noah had never thought of _himself_ as being in any particular danger based on his parents’ careers.

Now, he cursed himself. He should’ve been more prepared, more aware. More vigilant. He couldn’t allow himself to be used against them.

“These guys aren’t very smart—especially Jerry,” Noah said. He pushed off the bed, kneeling on the floor to peer beneath. “Whoever Clint is, our best bet is to escape before he gets here.” He reached up and tried to wiggle the crossbar support, but it was welded tightly to the side rails. “They didn’t even search us. Too bad we don’t have pocketknives or something. Or you actually had a phone.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Noah answered, sounding distracted. He’d pulled himself almost completely under the bed, and he was checking for any loose connections in the frame, any piece of metal he could break off.

“Check the angle iron at the head,” Gable said. “They couldn’t bring it through the door with the headboard attached. The cross angle iron is probably attached to the headboard and bolted but not welded to the frame.” He watched as the headboard jiggled a bit, and he heard a little creak of metal. He stood and sank into a crouch, peering under the bed.

Noah looked over at him and smiled. “Good call, _hermano_ ,” he said.

Gable shrugged, embarrassed. “Your dad’s a lawyer, mine owns a furniture store.”

Noah knew that Gable’s statement held no disrespect. Gable admired his father as much as Noah admired Barba. “Your dad’s furniture store might’ve saved our asses,” Noah muttered, once more pushing against the angle iron. It was even easier to budge without Gable’s weight on the bed. “We got lucky, Gabe.”

Gable laughed. “Lucky?” he said. “I’d hate to see your idea of a bad day.”

Noah glanced at him, chuckling. “I’m serious,” he answered. “Both of these bolts are sheared off. I doubt I would’ve been able to turn ‘em without tools, but I think we can pull the headboard off. Then we might be able to kick this bar loose.”

“Two hundred years ago some guy was probably laying that as part of a railroad track somewhere thinking it would be there forever. What do you think he’d say about the subway if he could see it?”

Noah looked out at Gable, silent.

“Maybe a hundred and fifty,” Gable amended. “Someone’s coming.” He stood abruptly, and Noah quickly wiggled out from beneath the bed. They both sat on the edge of the mattress as they heard the door being unlocked, and a moment later, Ronnie walked into the room.

“You boys having fun?” he asked, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “One of you is going to be here for awhile, but I’ve decided to make a one-time offer. Whichever one of you isn’t Barba, you can leave. I’ll have Jerry blindfold you and take you back to the subway. Which one of you is—what was it? Gable?”

“I am,” both boys said in unison, without taking their eyes off of the man in the doorway.

“You know what?” Ronnie said. He pointed at Noah. “You were the first one to say you were Gable, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. You can go, come on.”

Noah didn’t move.

Ronnie looked at Gable. “Come on, Noah, tell your friend to leave you here, you know we won’t hurt you—it’s your father we want.” He regarded the silent boys for a few moments before sighing. “Alright, you called my bluff. How about this?” He walked forward and pointed his gun at Noah’s forehead, again. “What’s your name?”

 _Noah—_ “Gable Dreyfuss,” he managed, his mouth dry.

For a moment, Noah thought Ronnie was going to shoot him out of sheer frustration. Then the man’s expression smoothed, and he stepped back, lowering the gun to his side. He pulled a granola bar from his pocket and tossed it at Noah’s face; Noah caught it, startled. “Food for one is what you’ll be getting,” Ronnie said. “You’d better hope Clint only drags this out for days instead of weeks.”

He backed to the door and, with one last glare, left the room and locked them inside.

Noah handed the granola bar to Gable and stood. He was shaking, partly in fear, partly in anger. He wanted to get his hands on Ronnie’s gun. He wanted to point it at Ronnie’s head and ask him for _his_ name, wanted to see the confidence slip from the man’s expression as he stared his death in the face.

Noah swallowed with effort and took a deep breath. His hands were fisted by his sides, and he forced his fingers open, giving them a little shake.

“They’re gonna keep us here for days,” Gable said. It wasn’t a question. “My parents…probably don’t even know I’m gone, yet.”

“Mine do,” Noah said, turning toward him. “I guarantee they know something’s wrong. If we can get that bar off, will the bed still support us?”

“Well…yeah…but the headboard won’t be attached…”

“We can keep it against the wall and it’ll stay up, right? They wouldn’t know by looking at it?”

“Yeah. But even if we can pull the headboard off without them hearing us, we’ll have to kick the bar off, probably. It’s gonna be loud.”

“There’s nothing else we can use. There’s not even a lid on the toilet tank. I’ve punched one guy in my life and I got my ass—”

“Two.”

“Huh?”

“You’re thinking of Jasper but don’t forget, you punched your dad, too.”

Noah laughed, surprised. “Oh, God,” he said. Gable grinned at him. “Well, let’s not count that one, either. The bedframe is the only thing we might be able to use. But…if they catch us…”

“They can’t kill us if they don’t know which is which,” Gable said, with a valiant attempt at bravado. “They can hurt us but…I’m with you, no matter what.”

Noah returned to the bed and sat down, putting his arm over Gable’s shoulders. “So, what’s for dinner?” he asked.

Gable held up the granola bar. “Looks like steak and potatoes,” he said. “Think it’s kosher?”

Noah laughed. “Please. With as much pepperoni as you’ve eaten at my place?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell my grandmother. She’ll blame my father for marrying a—” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and stage-whispered: “ _—secular_ Jew. She might ask for my bar mitzvah check back, and you know I spent that two years ago.”

Noah laughed again. “Your family’s secrets are safe with me, _amigo_.”

 

*       *       *

 

“There’s video of them getting onto the subway but they didn’t get off at their stop. We checked all the previous stops and didn’t—”

“Get to the point,” Benson said, pacing.

“We can’t be certain but we think we might’ve spotted them—”

“That’s them,” Barba said, starting forward, pointing a finger at the screen.

“There’s no clear shot of their faces—”

“It’s them,” Barba snapped, glaring at the detective. “Who’s the man with them?”

“We don’t know, yet. We’re still going through the crowds to see if we can find when he got on—”

“Somebody took them,” Benson said. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was flat, and Barba looked up at her. They stared at each other, each trying to rein in their fears for the sake of the other.

“We can’t say for sure. They could be going willingly, there’s no sign of—”

“My son did not take off with some guy off the subway, not willingly and not without calling,” Barba said.

“Find out who that man is. Now,” Benson said.

Barba walked over to her. She held up a hand, but he pulled her into his arms, anyway. “He’s going to be fine,” he said. “We’ll get him back, Liv. They’ll both be fine.”

She clutched the front of his shirt, burying her face against his chest for several seconds. Then she lifted her head. “I need you to go in and stay with the Drefusses,” she said. “Try to keep them calm.”

 _Who’s going to keep me calm?_ Barba thought. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. “Phone calls, or going through surveillance—Can I get everyone coffee, at least?”

Benson managed a smile, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Keep Gable’s parents out of the way,” she said. “That’s the best thing you can do right now. I’ll keep you updated with anything we find out.”

“Liv,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her worried gaze. “You know where I’ll be.”

“Yes.”

“If you need a hug, you come find me.” He didn’t need to say the rest aloud: _I’ll need one, too._

 

*       *       *

 

“It’s been sixteen hours,” Benson said, and Barba could see that she was holding herself together by a thread.

“Rollins finally convinced the Dreyfusses to go home,” Fin said. “Maybe you should do the same, Liv. Get some sleep.”

“No,” Benson said.

“Olivia—”

“I’m not leaving, Lieutenant Tutuola,” she said, and he held up his hands in submission. She looked at Barba. “We identified the man from the subway. He got on the same stop as them. There are a lot of people, so in order for the boys to go with him without a fuss…” She trailed off.

“He must’ve had a gun, or something—Noah wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt,” Barba said, and he saw her throat working as she struggled against her tears.

“The man’s name is Jerry Bickford—Does that mean anything to you?” Fin asked.

Barba frowned, thinking. He shook his head. “Should it?”

“Just checking. We can’t find a connection,” Fin said. “Jerry’s a small-timer, mostly muggings and whatnot, short stints in the slammer but nothing major. He’s got a cousin, Ronnie Bickford, he’s a bit more hardcore, did the minimum five years for armed robbery, been out about a year. No kidnapping or ties to child trafficking,” Fin said. He saw them both wince, but continued, “We think Ronnie might be involved somehow, though, because Jerry doesn’t seem the type to pull something like this, himself. But neither of them—surprisingly—has any connection to either of you, so far’s we can tell. Now, we were able to track Jerry and the boys into a van, but the plate was swiped from a Lexus and we lost the van on the traffic cams. We’re still looking through footage.”

“Can I help?” Barba asked.

Fin eyed him skeptically. “No offense, Counsellor, but you’ve been up for—what? Guessing thirty hours or so? We need fresh eyes. We’ve got flyers and the boys—and Jerry and Ronnie as persons of interest—will be all over the news.” Fin held up one of the flyers, and Barba’s stomach clenched at the sight: _TAKEN,_ it said across the top, with the boys’ names and pictures beneath.

Below their faces: _ENDANGERED MISSING,_ followed by physical descriptions of the boys, of Jerry Bickford, of the van, and information about their last known location.

Barba looked away.

“There’ll be an Amber Alert shortly.”

“Jesus,” Barba muttered.

“Did you call your mother?” Benson asked him.

“Yes. I barely managed to keep her from coming down here.”

“You two need to get some sleep.” When they both opened their mouths to object, Fin held up a hand and said, “You’re not gonna do the boys any good if you fall over. I won’t make you leave but at least go to the bunks. As soon as I know something, you’ll know something, I promise.”

 

*       *       *

 

Noah guessed that it had been sometime in the early morning when Gable fell asleep. They’d been lying on their backs, side by side on the small mattress, but Gable had since rolled onto his side between Noah and the wall and had his face buried against Noah’s arm.

Noah had dozed off and on for an hour or so, but he couldn’t convince his body to relax enough to get any real sleep. He was exhausted, and he knew he needed rest. He was hungry, too, and that was likely to get worse.

He had to pee, but he didn’t want to get up and wake Gable; he wanted to let his friend hide in the safety of slumber for as long as possible, and one of them might as well get some rest.

They’d gotten the angle iron bar off the head of the frame. They’d had to take the mattress off, of course, and pull the bed away from the wall to slide the headboard off. After that, however, it had been easier than Noah had dared to hope, to break the bar free of the headboard. They’d replaced the mattress—the head was just a bit saggy in the middle, but the side rails gave enough support for the narrow, firm mattress, as Gable had predicted—and pressed the frame against the headboard to hold it in place against the wall.

There was no box spring, so Noah couldn’t hide the bar beneath the mattress. It was almost three and a half feet long, too long to hide under the single pillow. In the end, they’d decided to tuck it between the bed and the wall. Noah didn’t like it—and not just because it was on Gable’s side of the bed, and harder for Noah to reach in a hurry. There was also the risk of it getting stuck or, worse, falling down to the floor. For the time being, it was their best option. They needed a plan of escape, but they needed an idea of their kidnappers’ plan, first.

As though his thoughts had summoned it, he heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Noah turned his head toward the door but didn’t get up. He waited, holding his breath, trying to prepare himself. He was mentally gauging the time it would take to lunge across Gable and grab the bar.

It was Jerry, this time, instead of Ronnie.

Noah had spent quite a bit of time going over scenarios in his head, and he still hadn’t decided if it would be better to make his move against Jerry or Ronnie. He thought it would be easier to get the drop on Jerry, but if the struggle made any noise and alerted Ronnie, there would be no hope of escaping the house.

He knew he might not have a choice. Maybe Gable was right; maybe they should’ve yelled for help on the subway. But if someone had gotten shot trying to help them? Would he be able to live with that guilt?

 _And what if Gable is hurt? Can you live with THAT?_ He shoved the thought away as Jerry stepped into the room.

The man held up a box of Pop Tarts. “Ronnie says this is all you get for today so he says you better make it last.” He tossed the box onto the floor, and the sound made Gable jerk awake beside Noah. He lifted his head, blinking in confusion.

“No strawberry?” Noah asked. “That’s my favorite.”

Jerry blinked in surprise, and Noah thought, _You’re an idiot._

“You’re lucky you get anything,” Jerry said after a moment. Without another word, he turned and left.

Noah gently pulled his arm from Gable’s grip, and rolled off the bed onto his feet. He bent and picked up the Pop Tarts. “Looks like bacon and eggs for breakfast,” he said. “But only eggs for you—for your grandmother’s sake.” He could see reality settling into Gable’s expression, driving out the confusion of sleep, and Noah was sorry for it. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading toward the bathroom.

After he peed, he rinsed his hands—there was no soap—and drank a couple of handfuls of water from the faucet before returning to sit beside Gable on the bed.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” Gable muttered, staring at the box of pastries.

“Eat if you’re hungry,” Noah said. “Have two if you want. Listen, I’ve been thinking.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Sure, some. Eventually, Clint is gonna call my dad. Whatever he wants, my dad isn’t gonna give him anything, or agree to anything, without proof of life. If they haven’t figured out who we are by then—if they haven’t seen us on the news—they’re gonna have a problem. They’ll have to tell Clint they have both of us, or try to get us to give up our names, again. We might have to make our move, then. We might not have a choice.”

 

*       *       *

 

Barba was lying on his back, with Benson’s head on his chest. His arms were around her. She’d been crying, but quietly—trying to hold herself together. Barba couldn’t let himself cry, and not just because Benson needed him. No, giving in to the panic swirling inside of him would be admitting that his son was gone, and that was not something that he could, or would, admit. They were going to get Noah, and Gable, back. Barba believed that. He _had_ to believe it.

Both of their phone alarms went off at the same time, and they knew without looking that it was the Amber Alert. Barba’s arms tightened around Benson, and her hands fisted in his shirt.

“There are so many people that would want to hurt me, it’s like finding a needle in a haystack,” she murmured against his chest. “Thirty years of suspects. But if it was random? If they were grabbed because…” She couldn’t finish, though. She’d seen too many horrors in her life. Her brain shied away from connecting those to her son, or to Gable.

“We’ll find them,” he said, because it was all he could say.

“No one’s called. If they were targeted—if Noah was targeted—someone should’ve—”

“Liv, honey, you need to rest. You’re going to get our son back. I have absolute confidence in you. But you need to rest. Fin’s right—we can’t help the boys if we don’t keep our energy up.”

“It’s been eighteen hours,” she whispered.

“I know,” he answered. Bile stung the back of his throat.

 

*       *       *

 

Ronnie was holding his cell phone in one hand, and his gun in the other. “What’s your name?” he asked Noah.

Noah didn’t answer. He felt ill. He thought he knew why Ronnie had come down, phone in hand, and he cursed himself for not being ready with the bar—for not predicting this arrival. He should’ve known, he should’ve been prepared.

“Guess what?” Ronnie asked, holding up his phone. “Your mother was nice enough to send us your name and picture! The whole city knows who you are.”

“They must’ve mixed the photos up,” Noah said.

“Your mother’s the police captain.”

“You think she’s in any condition to look at stuff like that? Would your mother be, if someone had kidnapped you?”

“I doubt she’d have noticed,” Ronnie said.

“I’m not surprised,” Noah answered.

Ronnie smiled, the dangerous smile of a predator, as he walked toward the bed. Noah knew he had no hope of getting to the bar. He considered trying to tackle the man, instead. Maybe he could subdue him long enough for Gable to get the rod.

Ronnie turned the gun toward Gable.

“No,” Noah said, leaning toward his friend.

“Get up,” Ronnie said.

Gable stood, slowly and shakily, but Noah also shot to his feet beside him. He put an arm in front of Gable, but before he could say anything, Ronnie’s phone rang.

After glancing at it with a frown, Ronnie answered, “Yeah.” He listened, and the boys saw his expression tighten. “Yes, he…wasn’t sure which one was—Yes. Okay. Yes.” He hung up the phone and dropped it into his shirt pocket, glaring at Noah.

“Guess Clint knows, now,” Noah guessed, but he could hear the tremor in his own voice, again. Having a gun pointed at him, or at his friend, was not something he would be able to get used to. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to be strong. But he was terrified.

“He seems to think Barba will want proof of life on both of you,” Ronnie said. “Me, I don’t think he’ll care so much for your buddy here, not as long as he knows you’re still alive.”

“Guess we’re lucky you’re not in charge,” Noah answered.

Ronnie stepped forward, grabbed Gable by the shoulder, and kneed him in the stomach. Noah started forward and stopped when he found the gun pointed between his eyes. He knew that Ronnie wasn’t supposed to kill him, but it was hard to have confidence in Ronnie’s self-restraint while staring down the barrel of a gun.

Gable was doubled up, and dropped to his knees, retching, as Ronnie backed toward the door with a smirk. Noah wanted to kill him. He wanted to watch him suffer. He was shaking with impotent rage as he sank into a crouch beside Gable.

“It would’ve been quick and painless,” Ronnie said. He pointed at Noah. “His suffering is on your head.”

And then he was gone.

Gable was gagging, struggling for breath, and Noah rubbed his back, muttering words of consolation and apology. He felt tears burning his eyes, and he made a silent vow that he would not be caught off guard again.

 

*       *       *

 

“Barba.” Even as he answered the phone, he felt the knot tightening in his stomach at the sight of the unfamiliar number. He wasn’t sure what would be worse—for the call to be about Noah, or for it to _not_ be about Noah. Not knowing where his son was, if he was being hurt, was driving Barba out of his mind.

“Rafael Barba. It’s been a long time,” the voice on the other end of the call said, and Barba felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t exactly recognize the voice—not well enough to place it—but he recognized the _tone_ of voice. “I won’t presume you remember me, I wouldn’t want to set myself up for disappointment. I’ll give you a hint, though. It’s been two hundred and thirty-six months since the last time we were in the same room. Since you convinced a jury that I was guilty of something I didn’t do, to be exact. That’s a long time, Mr. Barba, wouldn’t you agree? A long time for reflection? A long time to think about how best to get revenge against the man who stole your life. And then, lo and behold, what do I find? You went and got yourself a family in that time. Now, I understand he’s not really your kid, but I’m guessing his death would still be pretty upsetting for you. And his mother! She’d never forgive you, not when she finds out his death is your fault. And at Christmastime?” He clucked his tongue into the phone.

“If you were innocent as you claim, then why become a murderer now that you’re a free man?” Barba asked, amazed that he could speak at all.

“I’d say that nearly twenty years in prison changes a man, Mr. Barba, but what’s the point? I have your son. And his friend, apparently, although that was incidental. But, hey. More guilt for your conscience, eh? I won’t be killing them today. As for what I will be doing? Use your imagination,” he said before hanging up.

Barba stood in the middle of the room, trembling, unsure if he was going to be sick, pass out, or scream. The world was spinning around him; his vision was blurred. He knew he had to get his phone to Benson, but his limbs were numb with fear, and he couldn’t move.

 _Use your imagination_ , he thought, his stomach roiling.

 _He’s not really your kid_. Barba’s brain latched desperately to those words, because they reminded him of something else: Noah, half-drunk and crying in their bathroom, saying _All I wanted was to be your son._

_You are my son._

_I mean, really._

_So do I. Screw biology._

“He needs you,” Barba muttered, barely aware that he’d spoken aloud. He pulled in a deep, shuddery breath, and held it, counting to twenty before releasing it slowly. Then he repeated the process. _He needs you, and so does Liv_ , he thought. He forced his feet to move, and in what seemed like moments, he found himself walking into Benson’s office. She and Fin were bent over her desk, running down a list of names. Carisi and Rollins were on the couch with another list.

All four of them looked up at Barba’s entrance, and Benson immediately pushed to her feet.

“I got a call,” Barba said, holding his phone toward Carisi—he was closest. “I didn’t know the number, not sure of the voice but he said the last time we were in the same room was two hundred and thirty-six months ago so that must’ve been his sentencing.”

Carisi had already snatched the phone and was hurrying from the room with Rollins behind him.

“What else did he say?” Benson asked, looking terrified of his answer.

“He said he was innocent and he’s spent almost twenty years thinking of how to make me pay for sending him away.”

“Make _you_ pay? What about the arresting officers, the judge, the jurors?” Fin asked. “The defense attorney?”

Barba shrugged, keeping his eyes on Benson with effort. He knew she could see his guilt, and his fear. He was managing them, but he couldn’t hide them completely. They were too large, too powerful. “Who cares why,” he said. “The point is, he said he has them. Maybe you can trace the call.”

“Rafael,” Benson said. “What else did he say?” she repeated. She wasn’t asking about the man or his motivations. She wanted to know what he’d said about Noah and Gable, if they were alright.

“He said he wasn’t going to hurt them today,” he said. That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, and Barba knew that she could see the distinction in his eyes. “I’m guessing he’ll call back,” he added. “He wants me to…know it’s my fault.”

She rounded the desk and crossed to him in a few steps. He wanted to back away; he certainly didn’t want to accept her comfort. She had him in a death grip before he could manage to react, and his arms went around her of their accord. He buried his face against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of her hair. His eyes and nose and throat and stomach were all burning, and all he could do was cling to her.

“It is _not_ your fault,” she said near his ear. “You and I have put thousands of people behind bars. Any one of them might jump at a chance to hurt our family. We’ll get him back, Rafa. We’ll get our son back. He’ll open his presents on Christmas morning, and Gable will come over for dinner, just like every year.”

Barba held onto her until he could breathe normally, and then he pulled back. “Should we call Gable’s parents and tell them about the call?” he asked, because he needed to focus on what was important: Noah and Gable. His own feelings didn’t matter, not while the boys were out there somewhere.

“Not yet. Let’s see if we can get anything from the phone, first,” Benson answered. She looked back at Fin. “Have they picked up the van on any of the footage _yet?_ ” she asked.

“We found it and lost it a few times. We have a good idea of which way it was headed but can’t be sure it didn’t double back. Or if he switched vehicles. There’s no sign of anyone at Jerry’s house. We weren’t able to get a warrant for Ronnie’s place—” He held up a hand when Barba opened his mouth, and said, “but the landlord let us in, he _happened_ to be there putting an eviction notice on the door, said that Ronnie has been less than regular with the rent since his mother died. There’s no sign of Ronnie or Jerry or the boys.”

“Find the van. Trace the call. Get me something,” Benson said.

“We’re on it, Liv,” Fin said.

 

*       *       *

 

The boys didn’t see Ronnie, or Jerry, for the rest of the day. They didn’t see or hear anyone all night. In the morning, the door opened just far enough for someone—Jerry, Noah thought—to toss in a box of graham crackers. Noah had begun carrying the piece of bed frame with him when he was pacing. He took it with him to the bathroom, he kept it tucked against his side when he was dozing on the bed. He wasn’t going to miss an opportunity. The next time either man got close to him, Noah planned on taking him down, even if he got himself shot in the process.

“What do you think they did with our presents for your dad?” Gable asked, as they sat on the bed eating graham crackers.

“I think they’re in the van,” Noah said. “That’s the last time I remember having the bags.”

“When we get out of here, we need to make sure to get them back.”

“For sure,” Noah answered, glancing at his friend.

“And make sure your dad knows this isn’t his fault,” Gable added.

“Next time someone comes in here, we make our move,” Noah said.

Gable was quiet for a minute, chewing his cracker as he stared at the floor. Finally, he said, “Yeah.”

 

*       *       *

 

“I’ve got him,” Barba said, tapping his knuckles against the folder in front of him when Benson and Fin walked into the room. He was on the floor of the bunkroom. He hadn’t seen Benson all night—she’d been working tirelessly with her squad, all of whom were running on caffeine and catnaps. Barba knew he could never repay them for the time and energy they were putting into finding the boys.

“The phone was a burner but we were able to get a general location. It’s nowhere near where the van was headed,” Fin said. “Have you been doing this all night?” he asked, looking at the files and papers strewn across the floor.

“I went through my case files,” Barba told Benson, ignoring Fin. “I had them sent over. Crossed my court dates against sentences, and there were three possible suspects—except one died in prison and one’s still there, which only leaves one, Clinton Paddock. His only next of kin was his mother but I doubt she’s still alive. But I recognized her address, because—look,” he said, holding up the paper. Benson took it, peering at the address before handing it to Fin. Barba was pointing out at the squad room, and the address written on the dry erase board. “That’s Ronnie Bickford’s address on the board. He lives next door to where Clinton grew up, where his mother used to live.”

“We’ll get our guys there right away, but I doubt he’s got the boys at his mother’s house—not when he gave you clues so you could figure out who he is,” Fin said.

Barba sighed, running both hands through his hair. He was jittery from too much coffee—way, way too much coffee—and not enough sleep or food. Benson had bruises beneath her eyes, and he knew they both looked as though they’d aged years in the past two days. “I don’t care where they’re _not_ ,” Barba said. “But this has to be the guy responsible, and there’s your connection to Ronnie Bickford which connects to _Jerry_ Bickford and now you need to figure out where they _are_.” He got to his feet with a grimace, stretching his back.

Benson handed him his phone. “Make sure this stays charged and let us know if he calls back— _when_ he calls back,” she said. “You need to eat something and lie down. You don’t look well.”

 _Neither do you, love,_ he thought. “I’ve gone over the case, and…he looks guilty. I don’t…It was so long ago, I barely remember the details, but I don’t see anything here—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Benson interrupted. “You did your job. This is not your fault,” she repeated.

“Come lie down with me,” Barba said. “We’ll sleep for an hour.”

“Give me a few minutes,” she answered, motioning for Fin to follow her.

Once he was alone, Barba sank onto the edge of the bed, letting out a breath. He’d spent most of his time at Harvard in a caffeine-fueled state of exhaustion, but he’d never been this tired in his life. He didn’t want to sleep, but he knew that he needed to. He could barely focus his eyes.

His phone rang, and he looked down at it, his heart immediately slamming in his chest. It was a different number, but he knew who it was.

He answered: “Tell me what to do.”

“I see you got your phone back, Mr. Barba. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you figured out who I am?”

“Yes. You’re Clinton Paddock.”

“Hmm. Not bad, Counsellor.”

“Tell me what to do,” Barba repeated, clutching the phone to his ear. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Would you die for your son, Mr. Barba?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“And his friend? Would you die for him?”

“Yes,” Barba said, closing his eyes.

“So noble,” Clint said with a laugh. “Are you still alone, Mr. Barba?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better hope so, for your son’s sake, because if you’re lying, he’s dead. I’m going to text you an address. I want you to go there by yourself. If there are any cops with you—even if they try to hide, you know they’re not as sneaky as they think—I’ll know, do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“You go alone, and you’ll find a cell phone. Call the number programmed into it and I’ll give you directions to where to meet me. Make no mistake, Mr. Barba, this is a test. I _will_ be watching. I want to see just how much you actually care about these boys. Do you come alone, knowing I’ll kill you? Or do you take a chance and ask the cops for help, hoping I won’t notice?”

“If I give you myself, you’ll let the boys go?” Barba asked through numb lips.

“Yes.”

“I need proof they’re alive.”

“We’ll compromise, Mr. Barba. Follow my instructions, and once you get the phone, I’ll send you proof of life. If you’re alone. Once you get my directions, I want you to take the SIM card out, smash your phone, and make sure no one will find it until it’s too late. Can you get out of there without anyone being suspicious or following you?”

“Yes,” Barba said. “I’ll tell them I’m going for coffee.”

“If they’re monitoring your phone, they’re going to know you got a call, but this is a different number than last time. You’d better have an excuse ready. You’re a good liar, aren’t you, Mr. Barba? I’ll be waiting for your call, and your son and his friend will be interested in the choices you make.”

Clint hung up, and Barba stood, phone in hand, waiting for the text. When the phone buzzed in his hand, he jumped, even though he’d been expecting it. He looked down at the screen. It took him several tries to memorize the address, because his brain was hazy with fear.

 _He needs you_ , he thought, picturing Noah’s face. _The boys need you_. _Pull yourself together_. He drew a breath and looked at the instructions to what he assumed would be a burner phone. He closed his eyes, going over the address in his mind to make sure he had it committed to memory. Then he used a thumbtack from the wall to remove his SIM card, and he unceremoniously stomped his phone into pieces. He doubted that Clint had any way to monitor his phone, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

He gathered up the pieces and dumped them into the trash can, making sure they were buried in the garbage. He walked to the door, repeating the address in his head, and hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, gathering his thoughts and courage.

_Would you die for your son?_

_Yes,_ he thought. He walked out of the bunkroom and his gaze landed on Benson.

_You’re a good liar, aren’t you, Mr. Barba?_

_Let’s hope so,_ Barba thought.

 

*       *       *

 

Noah and Gable heard voices outside the door, but Noah hesitated. There were multiple voices. Three, he realized after a moment. He shoved the rod under the blanket, his heart racing, and shook his head at Gable. They couldn’t take on three at once, not with a single piece of metal against what was likely three guns.

Ronnie was the first into the room, and he had his gun in his hand. Jerry followed him and then, last, the man who appeared to be in charge. Clint. He looked the boys over—they were sitting on the bed.

“Smile for the camera, gentlemen,” he said, holding up his phone.

 _No_ , Noah thought, pushing to his feet. He didn’t want them to send proof of life. Proof of life meant that Clint had contacted, or was going to contact, Barba. _I can’t be used to hurt him_ , he thought. _We have to get out of here_.

There were too many guns, though. Gable stood up beside him. If Noah were by himself, it would be different. But he wasn’t going to get Gable killed by being stupid.

Clint looked at Noah. “Something to say?” he asked.

“You won’t get away with this,” Noah said. “Whatever you’re planning.”

“Either _you_ will die today, or your father will die,” Clint said with a smile. “Which one is up to him. To be honest, I don’t really care. Your death would cause him so much pain and guilt…and at Christmas…” He shook his head. “But he’d have to live to really marinate in it, and I just…really want to kill him.” He shrugged. “Killing you and then him wouldn’t have the same effect—he’d probably be grateful to die, and that wouldn’t do, would it? No, I think it has to be one or the other for the biggest impact. And you,” he added, looking at Gable, “I don’t really have any use for you. Your life is tied to his. Just bad luck, my friend. You boys sit tight. We’ll see what daddy dearest decides to do.”

 

*       *       *

 

“She has no idea she’ll never see you again? How tragic, knowing the last thing you said to her was a lie. I would’ve liked to see the look on your face.”

“Would you let me call to say goodbye?”

“If you love her and the kid so much, how come you never married her?”

“We have plans to get married,” Barba said. “New Year’s Day.”

“Well. You _had_ plans,” Clint said with a mean smile.

“She won’t be able to trace this phone, not in time. You’ll be long gone when she gets here. Just let me say goodbye now that I'm here. She can come get the boys. You’ll be gone.”

Clint tipped his head. “You came here without cops, are you chickening out, now?”

Barba shook his head, swallowing. “You can kill me. You’re going to kill me.”

“Actually, I’d like to see it.” Clint gestured with his gun. “Say your goodbyes, but put it on speaker. I want to hear.”

Barba dialed Benson’s number. She answered on the first ring. “Raf, where the hell are you?” she asked.

“Liv,” he said, holding the phone in a shaky palm. “Listen to me, honey. Whatever happens, I’m going to get your son back to you, I promise.”

“What did you do?” she asked. “Rafael. Tell me where—”

“I love you,” he said.

She was silent for several seconds. “I love you, too,” she answered, and he knew how difficult it was for her to say the words when she knew she might never see him again.

“I’ll get him back to you.”

“I want both of you—” she started, but he hung up the phone. He handed it to Clint, who dropped it to the floor and smashed it beneath his heel.

 _So many broken phones_ , Barba thought. _What would Gable’s parents say?_ He had to fight down the hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his throat.

 

*       *       *

 

“Come on,” Jerry said, motioning with the gun.

“Why?” Noah asked, glancing at Gable. The two boys split up, putting space between them so that Jerry had to divide his attention.

“Come see,” Jerry answered, scowling at him. Noah was approaching the man slowly, with his arms by his sides, hoping Jerry wouldn’t notice the metal rod he was holding behind his right leg. Jerry looked at Gable, who was approaching from the other side of the room, now. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked. He started to point the gun in Gable’s direction, and Noah moved quickly, knowing he wasn’t likely to get another chance.

He turned his hips like he was going up to bat, but instead of swinging sideways, he raised the bar and brought it down on Jerry’s arm with all the force he could muster. There was a sickening _crack_ , and the gun dropped to the carpet with a muffled thud. Jerry opened his mouth—there was no sound, just a look of mingled surprise and pain—and Noah reacted on instinct. He brought the rod back around and hit Jerry in the head. At the last instant, he pulled back a bit, hesitating, but the blow was strong enough to send the man to the floor in a tangle of loose limbs.

Noah’s heart was galloping in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He stared at Jerry’s unconscious form for several moments, unsure if the man was alive or dead.

“Noah,” Gable said, and his voice broke Noah’s paralysis. He looked up at his friend. Gable looked stunned, and his voice was shaky, but he said, “We need to get out of here before someone else comes.”

Noah nodded, licking his lips. “Right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he repeated, more forcefully. He grabbed the gun off the floor and checked to make sure that it was loaded. He clicked on the safety and cast another glance at Jerry. “Come on,” he said, motioning for Gable. They walked to the door, and Noah poked his head out. There was no one in sight. They went out and locked the door with Jerry inside.

Noah went up the stairs first, with the gun by his side and his heart slamming in his chest. He paused in the doorway at the top. He could hear voices. He motioned Gable forward and pointed toward the door. Gable nodded, but he’d only taken a couple of steps when both boys froze, looking at each other.

“You wanted me, you have me.”

 _Barba_ , Gable thought.

 _Dad_ , Noah thought, fear squeezing his gut. Staring at Gable, he gave his head a little shake.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come, to be honest. Like I said, he’s not even really your kid. I’m glad, though. It would’ve been a shame to have to kill him for your sins.”

“You have me,” Barba repeated. “You can let him go. He doesn’t even need to know I’m here.”

“I thought you wanted to see him,” Clint said, sounding amused. “Now all the sudden you take my word for it? You don't want to say goodbye, to let him know what you're willing to do for him?”

“I don’t want him to see me,” Barba said. “If you’re going to kill me, just let him go first. Please. Just let them go, and you can do whatever you want to me.”

“But, see, I can anyway,” Clint said. “You have nothing to bargain.”

“Go,” Noah whispered, pointing toward the door. Gable, wide-eyed, started to shake his head. “You promised,” Noah hissed at him. “Trust me. Go.”

Gable didn’t want to leave Noah and Barba, but he turned and hurried to the door. He let himself outside as quietly as possible, closing the door with a soft click. Noah turned toward the living room. The gun felt heavy in his hand. His skin was tingling, but he took a deep breath and held it, willing himself to keep a clear head. He crept toward the room, keeping close to the wall, praying the floor wouldn’t creak.

“You’re right,” Barba was saying. “You win. You won. I’m begging, please let the boys go.”

“What the hell is taking Jerry so long?” Clint asked.

“You want I should go—”

“Yeah, Ronnie. Why don’t you do that.” Clint made a sound of irritation. Then, clearly speaking to Barba: “It’s tough to find good help, you know?”

“After twenty years in prison, I imagine so,” Barba said.

 _Oh, God, Dad, don’t bait him_ , Noah thought, but he was also filled with love and pride. His father was willing to beg for Noah’s safety, but that didn’t mean that Clint had broken him.

Ronnie stepped around the corner and stopped, his face going slack with surprise. Noah stood with the gun pointed at the man’s face.

Noah’s stomach was cold, but his hands were steady. He gestured with the gun, motioning Ronnie backward. The man’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. His hands had gone partway up, and were hovering at chest-level. His fingers twitched, and Noah knew that he was debating whether or not to reach for his gun.

Noah flipped off his safety and saw Ronnie’s throat bob.

After a moment, Ronnie backed up, reversing into the living room.

“Well, this is interesting,” Clint said, sounding unfazed—maybe even amused. He had a gun pointed at Barba.

“Noah,” Barba breathed. “Jesus Christ.”

“This _must_ be your kid?” Clint asked, and there was no mistaking the humor in his voice, now.

“You little—” Ronnie started.

“My _name_ is Noah Porter Benson-Barba,” Noah said, enunciating each name as he held Ronnie’s glare. Glancing at Clint, he said, “Put your gun down.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Clint laughed. “You can shoot Ronnie if you want, though, the fuck-up, and I hope you killed Jerry. Have you ever shot anyone before, kid?”

Noah swallowed.

“Noah, get out of here,” Barba said, and Noah could hear the fear in his father’s voice. To Clint: “He’s not going to shoot anyone, he’s going to back out of here. You don’t need him anymore, you have me. Noah, go.”

“I’m not leaving you—”

“Noah,” Barba said sharply. The boy glanced at him, startled, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off the other two men. “Your mother cannot lose both of us,” Barba said, his voice now raw with emotion.

“That’s sweet,” Clint said. “But, no one’s leaving. By the time your—girlfriend, is it?—knows where her son is, you’ll both be dead.”

“She knows where we are. She’s here. The cops are outside right now,” Barba said, sounding desperate. “Let him go and I can get you out alive—”

“Nah, see, I think you’re bluffing,” Clint said with a smile and a little wave of his gun. “I never did think you’d tell her—because it’s your fault he’s here. You know she’ll never forgive you if you did anything less than sacrifice yourself.”

“My parents don’t keep secrets from each other,” Noah said. He didn’t know what to do. “If he says she’s here—”

Clint stepped forward. “You’d better hope she’s not, you don’t want her to see this,” he said, pressing his gun against Barba’s forehead.

“ _No!_ ” Noah said. He swung his gun toward Clint, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Ronnie grabbing his own weapon. Noah didn’t care; Ronnie could shoot him. All he cared about was saving his father.

Everything happened so quickly that Noah’s brain struggled to process it. Even as he was starting forward, he felt the hot, wet splatter of blood against his face and chest. Ronnie sank to the floor, but Noah couldn’t make sense of that. He’d been staring at Clint’s face when it disappeared, and he couldn’t process that, either. His father was covered in blood and brains and bits of bone, his _face_ was covered in it, and Noah thought he’d been shot. He thought they’d both been shot, they’d _all_ been shot, and he was wondering why his knees hadn’t yet buckled, why he was still conscious.

Barba took two stumbling steps backward, making a strangled sound in his throat. He turned toward Noah, who was still holding his gun up, with his finger on the trigger. The only thing that had kept him from firing in his blind panic was his mother’s voice in his head—all those years of safety training, drilled into his brain from the time he was in diapers—and now he was barely aware of the gun in his hand. He stared at his father, both of them wide-eyed and covered in blood, trying to figure out what had happened.

“Jesus. Jesus,” Barba said. He grabbed Noah’s wrist and yanked the gun from the boy’s grip, tossing it to the floor. “Christ.” He was running his hands over Noah’s bloody shirt, looking for injuries. “Are you hurt? Noah? _Mijo_ , are you hurt?”

“I don’t—what—your face—” Noah was finally, belatedly, realizing that the mess on his father’s face wasn’t Barba’s blood. It was _Clint’s_ blood splattered all over Barba’s face and chest, and Noah had begun to shake. He looked down at himself and saw Ronnie’s blood all over his shirt; he could feel it on his face. “Dad—” he said, clutching at Barba’s shoulder as he struggled to focus on his father’s face.

“Jesus Christ,” Barba said, pulling Noah into a hug that knocked the breath out of both of them. “ _Mi Díos_ , Noah, you’re okay, listen to me, you’re alright, you’re safe,” he was saying, breathlessly. “Where’s Gable?”

“Out. Out,” Noah managed. “I sent him—What happened?” he asked, although he was starting to regain some of his ability to think. His dad had said that his mother and the police were outside. Clint hadn’t believed him, but it hadn’t been a bluff.

Even as the thought occurred to him, Noah became aware of the cops swarming into the house. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear his mother calling his name. The world had begun to reel around him, but his father was holding him up, still holding him in a tight embrace.

Through a sheen of tears, Noah saw his mother shoving her way into the room. Barba turned him and shoved him unceremoniously into her arms, and Noah started sobbing, burying his bloody face against her shoulder. His father’s arms went around them, and Noah could feel both of his parents shaking.

He couldn’t make sense of what had happened, but it didn’t matter. He was in their arms, and he was safe. They were all safe. His knees finally buckled, in relief, but his parents supported him.

 

*       *       *

 

Noah was sitting on the couch, staring at the presents stacked neatly beneath the Christmas tree. He looked up when Barba walked over to sit beside him. Barba offered a small smile, but Noah could see the concern in his eyes. He could see it every time he looked at his mother, too. They were expecting him to have a breakdown.

Noah was having trouble sleeping at night, which they knew. He was having difficulty keeping the image from his mind—Clint’s face as the bullet hit—and he still felt like he had blood on his skin no matter how many times he’d showered and scrubbed. He kept remembering the sound, and the feeling, of the metal bar hitting Jerry in the head. Jerry  was alive, and he would be going to prison after he was released from the hospital. Noah was relieved that he hadn't killed him. That sound, metal against bone, was difficult to shake, especially in the dark of night.

Overall, he was alright, though. It had been a horrible experience, and he was thankful that Gable hadn’t been there to see it. But Noah knew the kinds of things that his parents dealt with on a daily basis, even if he’d never witnessed the atrocities firsthand. He’d grown up watching them deal with the aftermath of those horrors. And, he knew that they’d done what they had to do to save him and Gable.

So, he was alright. He’d cried, and he was still upset, but he was alright.

“He really thought you were bluffing,” Noah said, quietly. “He never saw it coming.”

“He underestimated your mother. A mistake you and I would never make,” Barba said with a smile. “And he underestimated my faith in her. And...her ability to lie over the phone, although her fear was real enough,” he added.

“Did you think about sneaking out without telling her, like he told you to?”

“No,” Barba said. “Your mother and I are a team, Noah, no matter what.” He paused, regarding his son. “The three of us are a team,” he said. “I’ve never been more scared than when you walked into that room. But you know what? I thought I was as proud as I could be when you took my name last month. I was wrong. When you looked that asshole in the face and said _Noah Porter_ —”

“ _Benson-Barba_ ,” they finished in unison, and Noah laughed, shaking his head.

“That was the scariest, and proudest, moment of my life, _mi hijo_ ,” Barba said.

“He kept asking me for my name.”

“And you told him you were Gable. He told us that you saved his life.”

Noah shrugged a shoulder. “We saved each other,” he said. “He had my back.”

Barba put his arm around his son. “It’s alright to be upset, Noah. You know that you don’t have to hide your feelings from us.”

“I know. But I really am okay,” he said. “When he asked for my name that first time, I was so scared I could barely think, I just knew I couldn’t tell him my real name or he’d shoot Gabe. I couldn’t control my fear for a minute, and then I thought, I’m the son of Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba. And I knew that I couldn’t let him break me. Not before you marry her and make an honest family out of us,” he added with a wink.

Barba squeezed his shoulder, leaning over to kiss the boy’s head. “In one week, I’m going to marry your mother with you by my side—my best man,” he said. “But now—it’s Christmas morning, why aren’t these presents opened, yet?”

“You already gave me your name, I don’t need any other presents,” Noah said, grinning.

“Oh, good, glad to see you’ve inherited your father’s ability to blow smoke,” Benson said, walking into the room with three mugs of steaming cocoa.

“It’s called _charm_ ,” Barba said, winking at Noah as he took two mugs and handed one to the boy.

“But he’s right,” Benson said. “Since you’ve already taken his name, you might as well take all these ridiculous presents he’s bought you.” She sank onto the couch beside Barba, and he put his arm around her.

“Like they’re all from me?” Barba asked with a laugh.

“Well, most,” she answered with a smile. “Oh,” she said, looking over at Noah, “Gable and his parents stopped by while you were in the shower. He dropped off that bag for you,” she said, pointing.

“Thanks,” Noah said. He got up and walked over to the tree, lowering himself to the floor. He sat cross-legged, his mug on the floor beside him, and pulled the bag into his lap. He pulled out a package marked _Liv_ and leaned forward, stretching out an arm to hand it to her. Then he handed the one labeled _Barba_ to his father, who smirked when he saw the name written in Gable’s handwriting.

Noah pulled out the small bag containing the tie he’d purchased for his father. It seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had changed in the course of a few days. There was another small, wrapped package in the bottom of the bag, as well as a note.

Noah tossed the bagged tie to his father, saying, “This one’s from me.” He unfolded Gable’s note, reading it over.

 

_Noah_

_I asked the cops to get these back, I wasn’t sure you’d remember right away._

_You know that you’re my best friend. I’ve always known that you would do anything for me, from standing up to bullies on the playground to taking the blame when we broke my mother’s mirror to taking attention onto you when I’m embarrassed…to threatening to quit the basketball team if they didn’t take me. Yes, I knew you did that, but I knew I was terrible and you were great, which is why I quit. I hope you’ve always known that I would do anything for you, too. But when we were in that house, I saw you willing to die for me. I would’ve done the same for you but you were the one that got us out of there._

_I tried to think of how to put my feelings into words. You know I’m not always good at that. I’m proud that you’re my friend. I know you don’t see yourself the way I do. The way everyone does. Maybe this present is stupid, but it was the only thing I could think of to show you who you are._

_I love you_

_Gable_

 

Noah blinked back his tears and pulled the paper from his present. He laughed, shaking his head, but the tears spilled over his cheeks, unchecked, now. He looked over at Barba, who was holding up the blue, dancing snowmen-clad tie. Noah raised his matching tie, with a watery grin.

 _I guess I’m my father’s son_ , he thought. But, that wasn’t exactly true. Looking at his smiling parents, he knew that he was a product of both of them—of their love and respect, for each other and for him, of their belief in justice, of their courage, of their strength.

 _I’m the son of Olivia Benson and Rafael Barba,_ he thought.

 


End file.
